Victory Lap
by TheMerryWriter
Summary: Dahlia lost everything first to Caesar, and then to Benny, and she'd pretty much given up on reclaiming any of it. Then she meets a sniper who's lost just as much, and they make a pact. Caesar will die, or they'll die trying to see him dead. Rated M for gore, violence, language, and future smut. F!CourierXBoone.
1. Chapter 1

**This post can also be found on ArchiveofOurOwn under the same title. As this story will include very explicit violence and sex at some points; on this platform it will be edited slightly, and the full version will be available on A03 under the Explicit heading.**

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The Mojave was unforgiving; they told Dahlia that when she was planning to leave the Capital behind.

" _It'll make you wish for a nuclear winter."_

" _Hellscape."_

" _Full of mutants and animals, and that's just what's on two legs"_

Of course, they were right.

She staggered over the broken bodies of the bark scorpion hive she'd disturbed and checked her Pip-Boy. This was the quickest way to New Vegas if you didn't take the I-15, but things had started to go south round about the time she hit NCRCF; running errands for Cons might pay well, but if the NCR was planning to hit that shit-hole she'd sell Eddie for a front row seat and some Sarsaparilla. So Primm, then, after the Strip. The chain link fence waved in a sudden wind, and sand whipped into Dahlia's eyes before she could push her glasses up the bridge of her nose,

"Shit," she said, mouth twisting as the Mojave conspired to sand-blast what was left of her complexion. Squat bunker entrances loomed from the gloom, but she pushed on; according to her map she was on the right track. Of course even the scorpions were hunkering down in this shit-storm. Dahlia pulled her scarf up to cover her mouth and forged on, head bowed against the whipping winds, and then, as suddenly as they came, they were gone.

Shaking the sand from her hair, Dahlia looked back; it was too localised to be natural, but what _was_ natural here? Curiosity reared its head, but she kicked it back down and turned to the north. In the gathering twilight a murky orange glow was beginning to creep into the sky. New Vegas, she assumed, in all its seedy glory…

Worth trekking through the night? She hefted the hand-me-down Varmint Rifle and took off at a jog, pack rustling with each step, head pounding with each footfall, each ripple of flesh and muscle. The man in the chequered coat would be on the Strip; that much she knew. She could feel it in her gut, and she was going to rain hellfire and vengeance on him when they met again. The raw scar on the side of her head throbbed, the world narrowed, and Dahlia jogged on until the train tracks began to clog with rusted carriages and shacks crowded their edges. Somewhere in the distance meat was cooking; the rich, salty smell flooded her mouth with spit and made her stomach quiver. Dahlia stopped to sip from her flask before creeping by a camp.

NCR, it looked like, but there was no sense in taking chances.

When the gate appeared it was a technicolour splatter, garish and alluring, against the mostly brown sky. Drunk men swayed by it's rusted hinges, dead-eyed prostitutes assessed, and then dismissed, Dahlia with a practised flick of their eyes. Only one smiled,

"Welcome to Freeside." She said, split lip cracking to bleed again when she bared surprisingly straight, white teeth. Dahlia nodded and slunk by her. A dog was barking in the distance somewhere as the gate closed behind her, and the smell of shit was only marginally more overpowering than the stench of sweat and bathtub brew that seemed to follow every citizen. The first burst of freshness, a herby, earthy scent, turned her head.

A group of men, well dressed, well-coiffed, and well-fed, lurked in nearby shadows. Dressed to kill, matching in most aspects, and smiling easily. Dahlia blinked owlishly at them; gang members, of some kind, but not any she recognised. Her eyes tracked their progress, and without other leads to consider, she followed them at a distance. The uniform, because it was a uniform, seemed to garner respect; as they passed the first interior gate others stepped aside. On the other side they were everywhere, and her eyes flicked inescapably to the flickering neon sign.

 _The King's School of Impersonation._

"Who's in charge here?" She murmured to the first passerby,

"In Freeside?" The bum grunted, "Van Graffs would say them, so would Garrets, but I guess The King has the numbers." He hovered expectantly, not looking, not looking, but still looking at her.

Dahlia pressed five caps into his hand and walked into the "school" like she had been invited by The King himself. A haughty attitude and a long-stride went far, but only so far. A broad hand hit her shoulder,

"Woah, easy there sugar. You're in the wrong place." He smelled better than he looked, but he didn't look bad. Looked like he thought he looked better than he did, though.

"I need to see the King," she said, and the doorman grinned,

"You and every other groupie."

"What?" She frowned, rolling the word in her mind with distaste,

"Oh… sorry, doll." He looked her up and down, "Well, he ain't seeing anyone."

"I have something he'll want to hear." She said, eyes flicking to the door. What the fuck was she going to do when she got through? What if it was _him?_

"I'm sure you do. Look," doorman wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Dahlia tensed, muscles like coiled whips, "I know you're legit, doll, but I got told he ain't seeing _no-one."_

Trying to be the good guy. Dahlia grinned,

"I get it." She stepped away, "You're just the doorman. Not your place. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Woah, wait there dollface – I ain't a doorman. I'm Pacer." He said it as if it explained everything. It might have if she were anyone else. He searched her face for recognition, "I'm his second."

"Sure, but orders are orders. Right?" She pressed the button for all it was worth, and watched his face crease. He _needed_ to impress, wanted to be liked. Dahlia could smell the rubber burning, see the cogs turning in his mind as he weighed the, in his mind _high,_ possibility of a fuck with his boss's potential wrath. Dahlia pressed her luck just one more time, and snorted, turning away.

"I… well, shit." He laughed, "You got me there. Maybe you do need to see the King." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Dahlia grinned and winked at him, stomach heaving when he grinned back, "Remember who gave you a leg up, eh doll?"

"Sure, just as long as you don't expect a leg over." She whispered as she passed him by, hearing the hissing intake of breath.

It was clear from the get go that The King was the guy they were all trying to be. The guy they were impersonating. He had brass balls and a healthy measure of self-love to go with his pretty face, that much she would have guessed, but when he stood to pull out her chair and called for fresh water before even asking why she was at his table Dahlia realised that he was nice. Captial N nice, as opposed to good. There was a hell of a difference, of course, but nice she could live with. Nice wanted to be liked. Nice wanted to play the white hat. Nice would probably offer her help for the chance of hero worship.

Nice would settle for lip-service, if she was lucky,

"Huh, you're a sight," he said in a strange, slurred way. As if he was drunk already, but his hands were steady and he was drinking clear, clean water. "You had a hard road."

"You could say that." She said,

"Well, what can the King do for you?" He said, and she smiled,

"You always refer to yourself in third?" She asked before she could stop herself. The King looked shocked and then grinned,

"I guess I do." He said, "What can _I_ do for you?"

"I'm looking for work," she said, "and a man."

"I can provide both." He said with a grin that should have melted her bones. Dahlia suppressed a frustrated sigh,

"A specific man. Short, dark hair. Wears a chequered coat. Black and white." Dahlia swallowed, "Had some Khans in tow last I saw."

The King frowned,

"He leave you behind?"

"He shot me in the head and stole something of mine. Something I was holding for someone else," she looked him firmly in the eye, "I'm no damsel." He looked her up and down coolly,

"I can see that," he said with a smile, "well, I ain't seen a man like that, but I'll ask around… about work, though. I need you to hire a merc, man named Otis. You probably seen the guns for hire through Freeside…" he raised his perfect brows, and she nodded, "well he's one of them, and he's doing well. Too well." Dahlia made a face, "My boys don't want an unfair advantage, you understand, just a level playing field," he said and pushed a small pouch of caps across the stained table top, "hire Otis and see what it is he's up to."

"That's all?" She asked, and he spread his hands,

"That's all."

Dahlia weighed the caps,

"Those are to hire Otis with," he added, "come back with information and you get a reward."

"What kind?" She pressed, eyes narrowing, and he looked her up and down,

"Warm bed, hot bath, full meal, ammo for that gun of yours and a stimpak or two." He said; he had her over a barrel. She _wanted_ caps, but those were all things she needed. In the case of the bath, things caps couldn't always buy.

"Fine." Dahlia said, stalking back towards the North gate.

Otis was crooked as a ghouls grin; Dahlia had known that from the minute he demanded full fee upfront. You couldn't kid a kidder, as Peter had said, and she knew a dangerous motherfucker when she saw one. Not the fighting kind, though; Otis was the sneaky, poison in the wine kind of bastard. She stooped to check the pulse of one of his "victims" and felt the corpse twitch in surprise. Dahlia cleared her throat,

"Funny, the blood looks dried."

Otis sighed, licking his lips,

"Couldn't leave it alone… did the Van Graff's send you?" He said, and the "corpse" below her gripped her wrist tight,

"No," she said, grinding her teeth, and, in her defence, it was the truth. He sighed,

"No matter," he levelled the gun at her head, "I guess it's a shame. Pretty thing like you having such a terrible accident. My reputation will suffer… but not too bad…" Dahlia gripped the squatter in panic, rolling backwards as Otis discharged the first few shots. The corpses friends scrambled to their feet, crying out as blood soaked her chest and chin. Dahlia threw the body to the side, his light, addicts frame breaking on the concrete, and tore her gun from its holster. The confusion served its purpose well enough; two of his shills fell under Otis' bullets before he could get a lock on her, and by then Dahlia was ready for him.

A shot grazed her shoulder and blood flew in a smooth arc until it spattered against a nearby wall. Dahlia leapt to the side, rolling as she hit the ground, and ran out into the main thoroughfare as a second shot punched through her hip, sending waves of agony to every extremity.

 _Never should have left Goodsprings…_

She screamed as she hit the ground, but pushed herself over onto her back and grasped the rickety 9mm pistol firmly. As if it could protect her from the killing blow, as if she could aim straight when her body was slowly becoming numb. When the gunshots came there was no pain, well no _more_ pain. Dahlia gasped like a landed fish, waiting for the sudden agony that never came. Two Kings came into view, and hoisted her between them, dragging her back towards the school,

"Pacer, it's her." One called,

"Shit. Ok, you found dirt on Otis, huh?" He slid into view. Dahlia nodded weakly,

"He ran when we opened fire," the Kings member said, "it was him, though."

"Reckon he knows we're on to him." The second said,

"Leave her with me. You two get that no good snake before he clears the city. Put out the word." Pacer said, and took her from the Kings, "Come on babydoll," he said, breath hot and unsavoury in her ear, "let's get you back."

The mercy of men was a funny thing; sometimes it was sweet as sugar and soft as a cloud, and other times it turned sinister. Thankfully Pacer seemed to be a sweetie at heart. He didn't quite drop her into The King's lap, but it was close enough and from there she was shuttled from back room to bedroom, attended at first by Pacer, then by The King, then by a woman with gravity defying hair. Somewhere around about the time snot and tears were mingling on her face as Julie, the spiky haired one, dragged shrapnel from her hip Dahlia realised she had an expiry date.

Petty job after petty job, hand to mouth, pay packet to pay packet; she'd been living like that since she escaped out West. She was winding down to another grave, but the chances of another mechanical Good Samaritan were slim. The man in the chequered coat was out there still, and now Caesar was on the prowl in the Mojave… the smell of blood and sweat and leather followed her everywhere; she'd never be free of it. The grim caked into every pore.

Nothing changed. Nothing but the roughened skin around her neck and the healed maze of raised and mulched skin on her back.

They put her in a bath, and sent a pretty thing in pink, lacy material to wait with her. The grim seeped out, but she still felt dirty. Twice they changed the water, throwing the black muck out into the street. The frilly girl brushed her wet hair until her scalp stung, rubbed her body with a rough towel, and then smoothed her skin down with a thick, creamy lotion, and then dragged her to bed with the help of an almost identically dressed older woman. For the first time in years she slept naked, and she found that, in the night, she couldn't find peace in it.

She dragged herself from bed to scour the bare room for something to wear. Frilly garments such as those worn by the bathroom women, and the rough, large clothes of the gang members… Dahlia dragged a pair of skimpy, pink pants over her wounds, hissing as she did so, and then slowly wriggled into a plain white t-shirt before she returned to bed, wrapping herself in the coarse blankets to ward off the blistering chill of midnight.

And she slept. And she dreamt.

She dreamt of an area of blood and sand, and on its borders the greenest grasses, chilled by mountain rains and summer snows. She dreamt of the hum of war drums, and the softest singing, and somewhere in the middle of it all there was a smell. The smell of cooking meat that watered her tongue and offended her nose. Meat crackling in the pan, and fat running from the cracked, blackened skin of crucified men.

Dahlia sat upright with a pained howl, leg spasming,

"Easy," Julie said, reaching for her as if she was a dangerous animal, "you've had a hard month, I'd guess."

 _You have no idea,_

"Where am I?" Dahlia licked her lips, but as the words left her she began to remember, "I was shot."

"Twice," Julie said, pouring water into a mug, "they were quite clean, but you reacted badly. Malnutrition and fatigue, I'd say." She pursed her full, pink lips, "You're in Freeside, in the Kings School of Impersonation." Her mouth twisted,

"What?"

"The Kings, in Freeside. You've been sleeping for three days." Julie said, "Only stirred to use the chamber pot, and only with help." Dahlia felt her neck redden, but it was a small humiliation for the loose energy in her muscles and the sight of a slab of Mojave bread with fresh Brahmin milk on the bedside table,

"Thank you." She said, and sipped the water. Julie tracked her eyes and grinned,

"Finish the water first," she said, and leaned back, "The King seems to like you… so does Rex. Despite your hat. He slept beside you last night." Dahlia frowned, brows drawing together,

"The King, or the Dog?" She asked, and Julie threw back her head, showing small, perfectly white teeth,

"The Dog. Though the King would come if you called, I have no doubt." She said slyly, and Dahlia wrinkled her nose, "Speaking of, he wanted to see you when you woke." Julie took the empty mug and passed her the plate before she left. There was a slice of finely cut Brahmin meat beside the corn bread. Dahlia swallowed the spit that flooded her mouth and curled her toes, biting firmly into the meat, savouring the taste explosion as she chewed slowly.

Then The King appeared, meek as you like, and sat by her bedside,

"We caught Otis fleeing Freeside," he said after some time, "I… I'm real sorry you got hurt working for me." She blinked,

"I shouldn't have gotten smart," she said, "I let him know that I was on to him. The fault is mine." And just like that there was no debt between them. He gaped, and the Dog, Rex, clambered onto the bed with her, "Where are my clothes?"

"I… uh, they were filthy. Torn. We threw them away, but there's new here." He motioned to a bag by the bed, "From Mick and Ralphs, just take what you need." Dahlia bit savagely into the bread, mourning her ratty fatigues even as the milk coated her stomach and her skin stung from lack of grim and sweat layers to hold the world at bay. She nodded,

"Thank you."

"Your payment is in there to… we, uh, I added something extra." He said and frowned at the dog by her legs, "Rexie boy, he likes you."

"He's a mutt." She muttered, but the hound only wagged its tail and licked her hand. She smiled despite herself. The King nodded, blue eyes trained on her face as if he could read there something new. Something more. She returned his crystalline gaze with her own muddy stare and set her jaw,

"Did you find him?" She asked, and he floundered for a few second,

"The man who shot you?" He ventured eventually, Dahlia nodded, "He's a Chairman. Big roller at the Tops, it seems, name of Benny."

"The Tops?"

"A casino," he said, "on the Strip."

"I need to get there," she pushed his guilt and goodwill for all she was worth; he seemed the type to stew over small things. To worry. The way he hovered too close for comfort, but too far for presumption told her that.

"We can get you a passport," he said, "but the casino's don't allow weapons."

"I'll figure it out." She said and pushed the covers away, "Thank you." With the air of someone unused to being dismissed, The King left.

She should have chosen something practical, she knew, but vanity overtook her and she chose a bright, buttery yellow top, clingy and silky soft, and pale denim crop jeans. A wide, floppy sun hat, and ankle-cute beetle-crusher shoes. She would replace it all when she left the strip, but for once it might pay to look feminine. Pacer handed over her passport without a word, but she thought she saw a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.

Or perhaps it was disgust; so hard to tell.

The eyes that tracked her on the Strip were the same. Guarded, but open. Intense, but inscrutable. They followed her to the Tops, and then, inside, were replaced by a new set. By then, however, Dahlia didn't care; she saw him the minute she stepped into the casino, heard a laugh and turned her head to see the Grim Reaper wrap his arms around a doped-up dolly girl. The coat, the stance, the shining, gleaming – _the Gun._ It was him, alright, and for the first time since she felt that unnaturally cold sand under sandaled feet Dahlia's courage failed her.

"-weapons?"

She turned to stare at the boy they had working the door,

"What?"

"You need to give up all weapons, pussycat, you got any on you?" He asked with a smug grin, motioning to her rifle. A gift from The King.

"Nevermind," she said and turned on her heel. She ran to the Freeside gate, and under the burning Mojave sun, emptied her stomach of everything The King had given her. One man could not cure the ills caused by another, it seemed. Rex whined and licked her fingers. He had followed her out into the street, and then The King made a bargain. She was to take him with her until she could find the doctor Julie Farkas had spoken of. After dealing with Benny, of course. She snorted and shook her head, pride withering on the vine with each passing moment.

Dahlia looked out at the mountains in the distance, felt the small weight of her near empty pack, and shook in the pitiless gaze of the wasteland.

"What do you think?" She croaked, "Which way?" Rex whined and circled her nervously before something caught his attention and he took off at a loping jog. Dahlia nodded and followed after. Another day, another job.

Nothing ever changed.


	2. Chapter 2

_Blood and sand. Blood and tears._

 _Blood soaking the walls, the sand, the shining, dull metal of her machete, and on her face. The scorching sun baked it dry, the odd breeze cooled it briefly. The body was just that; a thin, battered body. It rattled and gasped for breath, greedy for life still, but it was a corpse already. She blinked stickily, and looked up at the cold eyes, the shining head, the gold on the neckline of his tunic, and waited for the hammer to fall._

 _The eyes smiled down at her, and money changed hands behind them._

 _An upturned thumb; she would have meat tonight._

Dahlia started, eyes flicking opening as the cart hit a bump; her hip screamed in protest, and she made a low moaning sound. A caravan guard gave her a strange look, and then smiled, reaching over the side of the cart to scratch Rex's ears. Dahlia sat up groggily,

"Where are we?" She asked, voice cracking and hoarse,

"Near Novac," the guard said, "you alright?"

"Oh. Right." She sat up, "Yeah. Bad hip…." She licked her lips, "Novac…"

"It's near Nelson, what's left of it. Here, and Primm is here, Nipton in the middle." He mapped a figurative Mojave with his fingers without missing a step, and smiled kindly,

"Right, I see." Dahlia nodded and gathered her things, "Thanks, I can walk from here."

"You sure?" He frowned, "I mean, your hip?"

Her shoes hit the ruined tarmac, and heat instantly radiated up into the soles of her feet. Midday. The Caravan would follow the roads, such as they were, but she could cut cross-country,

"I need to stretch it out," she said, and did just that, rolling her hips with a grimace, "Novac?" She pointed vaguely, and he nodded,

"As the crow flies," he said and picked up the pace, leaving her behind to catch up with the cart.

"Thanks, buddy." She pulled her backpack further up her back and whistled for Rex, smiling at the low yawn he gave as he stretched. Un-holstering her gun Dahlia followed a worn, grooved footpath, forged by hundreds of footfalls, until the caravan and it's ambient sounds faded into nothingness. Only the rustling of the tumbleweed and dried grass. Only the sound of her breaths and the panting of Rex. She stopped as the sun peaked and closed her eyes, waiting for something to change in her, like it had when they were wrenching the shrapnel free. Nothing.

She could go on like this, it seemed, and would. What else was there?

"Not like I can kill Caesar, huh boy?" She scratched Rex's ear, "And I choked in the Tops. Guess we just have to fix you and move on." Rex whined and shuddered. The brain in his skull seemed to pulse, greying briefly; her heart ached. "Poor boy," she whispered, and crouched to rub his ears, "I won't let you down." He licked her hand gently, and took that water she poured into it with grateful huffs. The few caps she had made doing repairs and labour for the bar at 188 clinked in their pouch. Not much to keep the two of them going. She had to find shelter, she had to find better gear, and she had, above all else, to find a damn job. Rex shuddered again, and lay down.

She had to find a doctor. Or a vet. Someone.

Dahlia unhooked the tarp that acted as a shelter from her backpack and made a kind of pouch from it before bundling Rex into it,

"Shh," she muttered, "I know you don't like it, I know." She hoisted the straps over her arms and stood unsteadily, grinding her teeth against the pain. Rex whimpered and licked the back of her neck as she hoisted her pack up to rest on her chest. "Just a little farther." She said and took the first, grinding step. The second was harder, but when she found a rhythm the pain ceased to matter. Wave after wave; it was only a wave.

By the time she saw the first sign for Novac sweat was dripping from her nose, and Rex lolled helplessly against her back, tongue hot and sticky against her shoulder. No shade around, but that didn't matter; there was a building in the distance. Heaps of scrap took form behind it, mounds upon mounds of trash silhouetted against the setting sun, but as she drew closer it became clear that it was sorted and filed carefully. A store, then. Dahlia curled her toes in the thin plimsoles and ached for sturdy boots and thick armour to cover the pale, scarred core of her body.

"You're selling?" She jutted her chin at the old woman who was sitting on a wooden crate outside a squat building,

"I am," she squinted up, "and I'm old Lady Gibson, or so I'm told."

"I need clothing," she looked down, "more appropriate clothing."

"Well, I can't say that I see what's wrong with what you're wearing, but I don't have any armour in stock." She shrugged gently, as if to say 'what can you do?', and stared back at Dahlia with blank, friendly eyes,

"Well… is there another store nearby?"

"In Novac." Gibson said with a smile and clucked her tongue and Rex, "Such a Good Boy," she said as her own hounds circled him with curious eyes. Dahlia nodded,

"Ok, good. Thanks." She clicked her tongue, "Just some water then, if you have any." She squatted slowly to put Rex on the ground.

"His brain looks a little sickly, you should take him to Dr Henry." Gibson said, "Here." She pushed a deep tub of water towards Rex, "No charge for your boy here."

"What?" Dahlia stretched her legs out with a frown,

"No charge-"

"No the first thing."

"Dr Henry," Old Lady Gibson repeated, "he was in Novac last I saw him, moving on soon… but he might still be there." Dahlia looked down at Rex; he had struggled to his feet and was lapping water slowly from the tub.

"Thanks, I will." She nodded, taking the bottle of water Gibson handed out with a grateful smile, "And… uh, thank you."

"No problem." She turned to pat one of her own dogs gently on the head, "I can't imagine what I would do without mine." Rex shook what was left of his fur and stretched; the brain had regained a little of its pinkness, his movements were a little smoother. He took the chunk of meat from Old Lady Gibson gently, and wolfed it down before looking to her expectantly.

Something glinted in the road, catching the last of the dying light, as she approached Novac. The air here smelled sweeter, somehow, fresher… and that was why the smell of shit was such a sudden offence. The glint came from a machete, but it was attached to a body; fresh, but old enough to have voided its bowels. The crimson armour made Dahlia start, and she stepped back, hissing through her teeth,

"Legion." She muttered and kicked the body, leaning down to snatch the machete; they were fine weapons, even when wielded by bastards. It was a weapon she knew how to use, too. Learned through hard experience and gratuitous bloodshed. Rex growled as she pulled the helmet free, but the world had gone silent; _she knew him-_

" _I have an aureus on you to win, northerner, you better come through," he was drunk and nasty, the only way the legion got when wine was passed around. Dahlia scowled back, but kept her silence; her position in the ring was as precarious as her life. She was glad of the cage when night came. "I mean it. Break your winning streak now, and I'll break in that cunt of yours as compensation…. Women in the ring," he swayed and snorted, "what next? Women in the field… fucking joke." He staggered off, hiccupping. Screams echoed in the night. Thin, reedy… female. Reminding her where she could be. She looked around and began sawing the links of her manacles again, sweat beading on her brow-_

A shot rang out, making her jerk back. A second body had appeared only a few feet from where she was. A clean headshot. She looked around, squinting in the inky blackness that always drew in so fast; something glinted in the mouth of the monumental dinosaur that marked the entrance to Novac. A sniper nest…

She raised a hand in thanks, and after a few moments the scope glinted again. Rex whined and lay in the road, panting heavily as she circled the bodies, removing what she could from them. If the sniper cared about her looting they did nothing. She almost walked away, but the anger was too strong; Dahlia raised the machete and beheaded the first corpse in two solid hacks, bone and gristle creaking as she tore it free in a spray of gore and blood. The second chipped the blade of her machete with its spine. She cursed and dragged its blade free, discarding the broken one before she turned and limped into town.

A tent had been set up on the far side, and a barrel fire burned outside it. Dahlia sat at one of the rough benches and laid out her bedroll for Rex before letting her head fall to the wood, basking in the faint warmth from the fire.

"You don't want somewhere more comfortable to sleep?" The voice should have startled her; it came from nowhere, its owner moving like a shadow, but she was bone weary and Rex had not growled as he usually would.

"Rattled the motel office door, no-one in." She grunted,

"Jeannie-May lives down by. Just knock her door. Fifty caps a month and she'll give you a room key."

"I'll go in the morning." She sighed, and silence was the only sound until something rattled by her ear. A key lay on the table, "You were quick." She grunted.

"You fell asleep," the man sat across from her, and she was struck by the fact that he was wearing sunglasses, "we had a whole conversation and you gave me caps for the key."

"I don't remember."

He raised his brows and then snorted,

"Fair enough," he said, "room 18."

"Thanks." She groaned as she stood,

"Hey, wait… don't go yet." He clenched and unclenched his fists, "I don't talk to people here much, but you're a stranger… that's a start." Dahlia sat back down,

"Well, that's weird enough that I have to ask." She snorted and stretched her legs, "You only talk to strangers? Goes against conventional wisdom." He cracked a smile so faint that it was almost a twitch,

"I guess."

He sighed and took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The eyes they hid were tired and red, but startlingly green,

"I… my wife was taken by the legion, and I know you hate them as much as I do." He said, and she looked at her hands, still caked with blood and dirt,

"You have no idea." She said, looking at the space where her left pinkie finger should have been.

"Someone in town told them how to get to her. They knew when I would be out, and they knew the routes the town watch take. They knew where my blind spots were. I want the bastard that sold her… bring them to the front of the Dino for me, and I'll make it worth your while." He dropped his beret on the table, "Put this on when you're there, and I'll deal with it.

"You don't want to find your wife?" Dahlia creased her brows,

"She's dead." He said, and she opened her mouth to ask, but the fire in his eyes wilted her curiosity.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, and he licked his lips, nodding slowly.

"Yeah, me too." He said, and as quickly as he had come he was gone. She hadn't even asked his name… but then again he hadn't asked hers.

The room was small, just on the right side of dingy, and it had running water. Cloudy, and just under lukewarm, but a luxury she couldn't have expected. Dahlia lifted Rex onto the bed and cocooned him in the sheets,

"Good boy," she whispered, leaving a few strips of jerky for him to eat before she filled the bath. The soap was gritty, home-made clearly, but it was the kind of little touch that no-one could ever have expected. It smelled of some unknown desert herb. Spicy and musty; she scraped the blood and dirt off methodically, stopping only when her skin stung and tingled in the warm air of the bathroom. She changed her dressing with the fresh bandages in the first aid box, and lay beside rex on the bed in the voluminous t-shirt that, presumably, had been left by the previous tenant.

Rex stretched and whined in his sleep, and Dahlia threw and arm over him, taking in the scent of warm puppy flesh. He didn't stink like the Legion mongrels. Perhaps a result of The King and his care. The rhythm of his breaths was like the ocean; endless and steady. Behind that locked door, in the confined of a real bed, she slipped into a black, dreamless sleep for the first time in months.


	3. Chapter 3

"Well, I don't know she was…" Jeannie-May hesitated, and Dahlia took it all in. She was a thin, raggedy woman who seemed permanently at the end of her good-natured tether, but the "aw shucks and gosh" routine was ruined by the hard glint in her eyes, "she was like a cactus flower… real pretty to look at, but hard to get close to. Poor dear, I think she missed the big city living of New Vegas, but she walked round here like we were lesser and it did her no favours." They walked on towards the Dino,

"So you think she just ran off?" Dahlia asked,

"Well, it seems that way for sure." Jeannie-May nodded, eyes appropriately wide and wet,

"No-bark reckons he saw a group entering Boone's room while he was on duty." She said, laughing as if it was ridiculous, and Jeannie-May clucked her tongue and tittered too, but her eyes became steel,

"Well, old No-Bark don't mean no harm, but he's not all there." She said and stood with arms akimbo, huffing at the gate for a few moments, "What is it I need to see out here. I see nothin'."

"Not far," she said and walked on. Jeannie-May grumbled and followed until they stood on a rocky outcrop just in front of the Dino, "funny though, right, how he reckons they came by your house, from behind the motel, and she left with them… and you saw nothing. Right?" She said, "Heard nothing. Place as quiet as this surely you'd notice even one pregnant woman waddling on her way in the dead of night."

Jeannie-May stepped back towards the bridge, eyes narrow and venomous,

"I don't know what you're implying."

"I think you do." She said, "This is what I wanted you to see." She held out the bill of sale, but Jeannie-May refused to take it,

"I don't know what that is." She said, voice wavering.

"I think you do," Dahlia tucked it into the pocket of her new jeans, ironically purchased with the soon to be bodies discount, and placed the beret on her head, "and I think you know you're going to hell, you bitch."

"Now you listen h-" Her head exploded in a shower of gore, Dahlia winced and closed her eyes too late to avoid the spray. The world fell silent again, her hip ached dully. Dahlia counted to ten and opened her eyes before struggling back down the hill; she wouldn't go to him until the morning. In case of prying eyes. She knocked Ranger Andy's door; they had spoken briefly through the day. Now was as good a time as any to "talk to an old ranger for a while".

She knocked his door an entered without thought,

"Ranger Andy?" She called; it was a Mojave custom she couldn't quite settle with, just entering. It felt rude.

"Well, hey there kid," he limped from the gloom, "late night, huh? Have a whisky with me." He grinned and motioned to a lean-to table. Dahlia sat awkwardly, "To what do I owe this pleasure."

"Couldn't sleep," she lied, "reckoned you couldn't either when I saw your light."

"No. I don't sleep so good with this pain, but my good friend Jim helps." He said with a grin and shook his glass. Dahlia nodded, stewing in the awkward silence for a while,

"What happened to your leg?" She asked eventually,

"Aw shit, I hurt it years ago when I was a real ranger still," he said, "most recently I aggravated the shit out of it falling down the steps drunk." He grinned, "Thought Charlie would razz the shit out of me, but they're still quiet." He said with a frown. Dahlia threw back her whisky in one, practiced flick,

"They?" She asked after a few moments, "You know more than one Charlie?"

"Ranger Station Charlie," he said, "just up the ways. A few old friends there, we radio back and forth usually but…" his face went blank, "never mind, I'm being an old woman."

"You want me to check on them?" She asked; jobs were just falling in her lap since she crawled out of that grave. Everyone needed something it seemed, "You sound worried."

"Nah, don't want them to think I can't let go…" he said, "I need to let go. No use to no one now."

"Well that's Brahmin shit," she grunted, "you fool yourself into thinking that you tell me. You're more than a leg old man, you have to be," she sighed, "or where am I?" He chuckled and gave her a long stare as she looked around the dingy, threadbare room.

"Not many reckon there's use for a brokedown ranger," he said, "guess I just got to that way of thinking too."

"What's the use in an unbroken civvie, then?" She shot back, and he gaped for a while before barking with hearty laughter. Dahlia smiled briefly,

"Well, shit girl, ain't that the truth." He laughed, and they sat in companionable silence as the countless seconds ticked by. This she could swing; silence and drinking. Silence. Golden silence and no expectations. Maybe she needed to get old before she could get happy; every one with a smooth face and no baggage seemed to want chatter and laughter and loose hips on the dancefloor.

The King probably liked that kind of girl.

Dahlia waited until the darkness outside became grey, answering the few questions or statements with hums and nods. It was enough,

"I should go check the dog," she muttered eventually, and Ranger Andy nodded, eyes heavy with liquor,

"Hey, Kid, maybe you could check 'em for me. Just don' tell 'em." He slurred, "I'll make it worth ya while."

"No need," she said, "I'll check them, old man." It was as good a place to start as any. She grabbed Rex from the room, he was spinning in circles though his plumbing, so to speak, was no longer intact. Habit, maybe. He sniffed and ran, even cocking a leg, in a half-hearted way, while the metal screeched in protest at the movement and she looked up at the Dino. How do you tell a man that, even if he already knows? "Come on, boy?"

The sniper nest was small, cramped, and it smelled pretty much as she had expected it would; of sweat, and oil, and man. Basically it smelled sticky and brown.

"Goddamit, don't sneak up on me like that." Boone snarled, spinning at the sound of the latch. Rex growled,

"He doesn't like hats." She said by way of explanation,

"It ain't a hat." He replied,

"Potato tomato," she quipped, and then stopped, smile dropping,

"How'd you know?" He said eventually, and she held out the bill of sale without a word. He took it, "Figures. It'd be like them to keep paperwork." He sighed, and turned back to the gaping mouth that served as a window to the wasteland. She should have left.

But the broad back was sloped in a familiar way, and his breaths were too heavy,

"What will you do now?" she asked, "are you an outlaw now?"

"No," he laughed, "people die out there… plus, I was on a break when it happened." He turned to her with a sour, vicious smile, "As for what I'll do… I don't know. I'll… go somewhere I guess. Wherever there's legion to kill." Dahlia grinned, but a seed took root. Small, but hardy. Tenacious. She thought about Caesar on his hill, and Benny in his castle, and how small one body was against it all, and then she sent out a life-line.

"Why don't you come with me," she said, "two weapons beat one any day of the week." He was a statue in the moonlight, marbled and silver. He must have blinked behind his glasses, but she couldn't see.

"It won't end well," he said simply,

"We both want the same thing," she pushed, though she wasn't sure why, "as many legion dead as possible."

"It won't end well."

"When does it ever?" She asked, acid in her throat, salt on her tongue. He seemed to shiver to life,

"Fine."

They rounded the corner in silence; the whole morning had been passed in silence. Silent gathering of equipment broken by a burst of haggling for supplies, and then the silent trek from town as the towns wives mourned their matriarch. They didn't pass her body, but it wasn't by design; Ranger Station Charlie was best reached via the tracks at the back of the town.

"Remind me again why we're following Andy's paranoia?" Boone grunted as the sun broke free of the ridges at the top of the gully. Sweat was working its way down the back of his neck, his back, and under his arms while Rex panted happily in his holster, "And why I'm carrying the damn dog?"

"Because the Rangers can give us the heads up on legion camps nearby," _because I like the hell out of Andy, he's my pretend grandpa shut up,_ "helping them out might warrant a reward so we can buy food, and they might know, or can ask about, Dr Henry for Rex," _at least all that's straight up,_ "and we agreed to take turns this morning when his legs jammed, and you lost gecko, rifle, deathclaw."

"It was a rhetorical question." He grumbled, and she smiled a little,

"We can leave him at the station when we go hunting." She said as a small, squat building, surrounded by stacked caravans, came into view, "and there it is." She huffed in relief, patting the side of her pack, where the med-x was, absent-mindedly.

But no-one came to greet them. No flashing scopes glinted from the ridges, and no laughter came from the yard. It was quiet as hell, and they both knew what that meant. Boone slowed, readying to put Rex down,

"No… stay here, watch my back while I do a sweep." She said and unsheathed her machete. The first body was just inside the yard, blood making a bone dry halo around its head. This had happened days ago, maybe. She licked her lips and put one foot silently in front of the other. _Never too careful, no such thing._ The voice she assumed was her father's often whispered in her ear, usually with advice for how not to die. Dahlia crouched low as she peered around the corner. Nothing.

The door as ajar, but her hand stopped just over the handle. Stepping to the side she pushed hard, wincing when a blast rang out. Boone rounded the corner almost too quickly for someone of his size, but she held out an arm to stop him,

"Traps," she whispered, and made a wait motion with her hand. He nodded reluctantly, and Rex panted, whining into his ear. She grinned at his shuddering grimace. She giggled, "Dog breath," she whispered, and he snorted, nodding.

The stations emergency generation must have tripped when they ran through their renewables, but now everything was dead. Dahlia lay on the floor, marking out mines and trip wires. No way to defuse them in the dark, but she had to make sure it was empty. Adrenaline began to stutter through her, easing the ache in her hips and head as she padded softly to the first door, peering around the door jamb before she stepped over the trip wire. She waited for the first shot, shout, gouge. Nothing. She peered around before turning on her pipboy flashlight to unhook the tripwire and disarm the trap. The second room was tiny, a small bathroom illuminated almost in whole by her flashlight. They were gone. She lay flat to assess the mines. Tremble mines, if that was their real name, tuned to the vibrations of footsteps. Or earthquakes. Risky. She pulled one towards her slowly, panic flaring hot in her belly when it began to blare shrilly; she flipped it and tore the detonator cord free. The second did the same. Silence. And a broken mines, but they could sell them to the NCR as recued munitions.

"It's clear," she called, standing slowly, "they were hit at night." She said,

"How do you figure?"

"The emergency generators run dry as well as the solars," she flicked the switches to demonstrate, "which reminds me, fancy kicking the mains back to life. Panels much have some juice now."

"We here overnight?" He frowned,

"Maybe, I want to figure out where the bastards went." Dahlia said and sat in a low swivel chair with a hiss, pulling med-x from her pack. Boone watched in silence,

"What happened?"

"I got shot about a week ago," she said, "all flesh damage, they said, but I think that's shit. Somethings grinding my bones." He nodded,

"I got that. Here," he pressed his fingers to his collar bone, "still hurts when the cold hits."

Rex whined when she pushed the syringe under his skin, but didn't flinch,

"Good boy," she said, "this might help." It was a quarter dose, but if it killed some of the pain it would be worth it. She oiled his legs and jaw, mussed his ears and poured out some water for him. She had figured out where it went, all that food and water; something in his body reconstituted it to keep the brain healthy. She watched in fascination as the water level in that clear skull rose noticeably and the brain seemed to become healthier in a matter of an hour.

"He looks better." Boone said, and she jumped.

"Shit don't sneak on me," she said, "yeah… I don't think it's his brain that's the problem, well not just. I think that," she tapped his plastic skull, "is meant to hold water and nutrients longer than it does. Might need to feed and water him often as a normal dog until we can fix him."

"Think that's why he stops movin'?"

"Think so." She said as the lights flickered on, gulping down the contents of the water she'd found in the rangers desk. Boone stared,

"What? They don't need it now," she said, "they just need us to knock the legion down." He sighed and sat beside her, nodding,

"I guess. Doesn't feel right to loot our own." He said, _your own,_ that voice whispered again,

"No, but we gotta live." She said and patted his shoulder. Lets get a few hours rest. Huntings best at dusk."

The station yielded medical supplies, food, bottled water, and one hell of a rifle for Boone. She took a small sidearm, they divvied up the ammo, and then stared at the tape they found under the naked body of a female trooper. The sickness she had felt for that woman, seeing the blood and bruises on her thighs, breasts, and face, was almost matched by the look on Boone's face. It was Boone who dragged a blanket from the bed and covered her while Dahlia relived the memories.

"No defensive wounds," Boone said, "they caught her by surprise."

"Not necessarily." She said, "They like to barter. Pretend they'll let them live if they comply, make them humiliate themselves like cheap whores. Or they get two to hold them down with pillows over their wrists. No visible bruises on the goods." Dahlia blinked at her, "Either they killed her by accident, or they tricked her." Boone stared,

"How…"

"I've seen it enough times." She answered simply, touching the rough skin on her neck,

"You… were you…" _A slave? Raped? Forced to slaughter indiscriminately for food and water?_

"Yes and no." She said, "They never touched me, if that's what you want to know. I was one of the lucky ones, I guess… but I've seen it enough times." _Heard it, too._ He said nothing, no platitudes, _I'm sorry, you're stronger for it, you're very brave,_ no wrath, _I'd kill them if I could,_ but no blame either. No _why didn't you run away._ Just nothing, and she could appreciate the hell out of that. Dahlia pressed play quickly, and thanked any Gods that might be listening when it was a man who began to speak. No screams, no begging, no wet rhythm to grind through.

"…we took one of the women alive."

They froze,

"Oh God." Boone groaned and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Thinking about his wife, maybe. Dahlia hung her head and whispered words so old she had forgotten their translation, and knew only their meaning. She asked the woman for forgiveness; where she was going they could not help her. "We have to save her."

"We can't." She said,

"I found Carla."

"You left right after her," Dahlia said, "this trails old. If she was alive when they left she could be dead now, and if she's not then she's at the fort."

"So we go there."

"We won't get close without an army."

"We have to try," he snarled suddenly, shooting to his feet, and she saw all the softness in him, "what good are we if we don't try?"

"What good are we if we're stapled to a cross at Cottonwood Cove?" She asked, noticing how he wilted at the name. Boone slid back onto the floor,

"So what do we do?" He asked,

"We report this to the NCR, and we go scalping." She said, and the answer seemed to please him; he nodded firmly, a grim smile on his face.

"Closest is the NCR outpost past Nipton," he said eventually, "or Nelson."

"The outpost," she said, "I gotta be able to tell Andy we did something about this." And for once they were in agreement; the thought of his face, watching it crumple as she told him that he had been right all along. That they were all dead. It was too much, and she was too much a coward.

"We can restock at Nipton." He said, and threw himself down on a bunk. Rex crawled in beside her when she did the same, rolling to press the warm metal of his back into her stomach.

The smoke rising from Nipton began to smell like flesh long before they could see the town,

"Shit," Boone rumbled,

"Shit indeed," she whispered, "you think there's fighting ahead?"

"Hopefully." He said as she stooped to give Rex water and a few chunks of squirrel meat. Dahlia slid her machete free of its holder and walked on, keeping a good pace until the first crucified began to appear. Then she muttered a prayer and took it slow.

"Rex, scout." She said, sweeping her arm ahead; he took off like a shadow, keeping low. Boone unholstered his rifle,

"I see any legion, I'm shooting, hope that ain't a problem."

"That's a solution." She said, and he laughed,

"Damn right, ain't we just a couple of problem solvers." He said,

"We gotta figure out what's happened here, though," she said, "so if they try to speak keep the blade up until I get some answers."

"What? Hell no, I-"

"Do you want to help anyone but yourself?" She turned on him, neck craned to look up to his face when they were so close,

"I… hell, I don't know." He said,

"Well I do," Dahlia snapped, "I ain't saying we don't kill them, I'm saying we try to find out what they're doing so we can follow the fucker back home. Or at least give the outpost an idea of where they might be. Ok?" She could see him weighing revenge and justice on the scales in his head, eventually he nodded,

"They make a false move, and I shoot."

"Fine."

Rex slunk back to her side as she stood at the end of the main street, staring down at the legion party in front of the main hall. Boone took deep breaths, she could hear the rifle rattling in his hands; it needed a service like she needed a bath. Fucking badly.

One broke away from the group, walking down the avenue of moaning victims, wolves head helmet covering his features until he was close enough to smell. The town burned, and Vulpes Inculta smiled his vulpine smile at her,

"Well, hello Bellona. I never thought I'd see you again." He said, and she shuddered, "Caesar would have me send his regar-"

"Caesar can kiss my cunt." She cut in, Boone snorted, and Vulpes let his grin fall,

"I see. You're not returning to the fold, then?"

"Not as a slave, if that's what you mean…" She said, "but I want to know what this," she motioned to the burning town, "is all about. We found a culled Ranger Station, too."

"And soon, Nelson." Vulpes said, but Boone snorted again,

"Nelson is one of the strongest NCR outposts, I doubt that." He said, and Vulpes scowled,

"You keep poor company Bellona."

"Says the man who ran through children like water." Dahlia spat, her skin crawling,

"I'm beginning to think you don't want to come home…" he said, raising his hand a little. The legionnaires began to walk forward.

"You're right," Dahlia said, and slammed the Machete into his gut, grinning as bullets began to fly. She threw a grenade haphazardly, and scattered the oncoming enemies, taking the legs from one who couldn't clear the blast zone, and wounding three hounds as they made a beeline for her. Rex took down the first with a single bite of his metallic jaws, Boone the second with a swift kick to break its neck, but the third took her down, tearing the flesh of her arm before she could pump two rounds from the 9mm into its guts. Dahlia flipped onto her stomach and scrambled a few feet in the dirt before she found her feet and a shot whipped past her head; Boone had retreated for better aim, and Rex was cornered. She hacked into the neck of the next Legionnaire that approached, breaking into a run as the first yelp echoed through the town. She hit the Legionnaires like an angry God, machete biting deep into one's back before Boone downed a second, firing point blank into the eye of the last. Rex whimpered and circled her feet, limping and shaking as blood dripped from what little fur he had left,

"Oh baby, I'm sorry." She fell to her knees, pulling a stimpak from her pack, "I'm sorry, it's ok. You're a good boy." She whispered as he squirmed. His brain case was leaking; her heart sank as Boone padded up,

"He ok?"

"No," she said, "we need… duct-tape, or wonder glue, or something to hold this together until we can get to Dr Henry." He nodded and slipped off into the town. Dahlia sat on the tarmac and hugged Rex tight, tears welling, "I'm sorry." She said, "I'm so sorry." He whined and slumped onto the ground, lying in her lap until Boone came back with an armful of spare parts and tools.

"This is what I could find."

"Deal with the crucified, Boone, I'll fix him." Dahlia turned her head to hide the tears and waited for him to walk away. The cracks were small, but many. She spread the wonderglue thin across the surface and spread bandages on top, layer after layer until the leaking stopped. She replaced broken wiring with cannibalised electronics, and gave him the food, water, and med-x they had to spare, which wasn't much, and led him into the gloom of the town hall. The hounds inside were thin, aggressive, and very, very scared. She left the door open and tipped a few bottles of water into their empty bowls. If Boone noticed them when they slunk away he did not fire.

Water, food, medical supplies, ammo… the grind was very much back in play. She snatched what caps she could and rooted through the Mayors terminal, _rat,_ but had to return to Boone with little to show for her efforts,

"The Mayor helped them," she said, "they could be changing tactics."

"Doubt it, there's a powder ganger with busted legs in the general store. He dropped his full pack on the floor, "gave him some med-x and he told me there's a slaving party headed that way." He pointed back towards Novac. Dahlia closed her eyes and let the information overwhelm her,

"Rex has to come first," she said, "I'm going to the NCR outpost." Boone nodded,

"Agreed."

"Wait, really?" Dahlia said, brows rising,

"He's a good dog." Was the only reply he gave as they began the long trek to the outpost; the statues in the distance gave no illusion of closeness. Rather they made it seem impossibly far. Boone stopped, "He won't manage the hill, I should carry him."

"No, it's fine," she smiled and stooped, "I will."


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, he's a lucky boy that we were here," the thin, harried woman said, "that case needs replacing, his circuits are close to fried, and some of the pneumatics in his legs are on their last legs, haha." The last was more of a dry exclamation then genuine mirth, "can't do anything about the brain, though, you'll need Dr Henry for that." Dahlia's chin jerked up, heart beginning to race,

"You know him?" She said,

"I did, in a professional manner," the woman said,

"Where is he?" Boone uncrossed his arms,

"Last I heard he was in Jacobstown, up behind the Strip. In the mountains." She said, and prodded an exposed wire, "Leave Rex here with me, and I'll make sure you can get him there in one piece. You'll likely need a new brain, though…." She clicked her tongue, "I'm Ada, by the way." She shook their hands briskly and ushered them out of the tent.

"A new brain," Dahlia said in the Mojave heat, "how are we going to get that?"

"How're we going to keep it fresh 'till we get there." Boone said, scratching his chin,

"Shit."

"Shit," he agreed, and looked up to the roof of a nearby building, "on the plus side, we could talk to him about Nipton." He motioned to a cowboy hat that shifted slightly every now and then on that roof. He was, as it were, a she, and Ghost was as cheery as Dahlia felt,

"Burned out?" Ghost repeated, Boone nodded, "Well, shit."

"Did you know someone there?" Dahlia asked,

"Fuck no, Nipton's a shithole… was a shithole," Ghost shook her head, "but legion. Shit, no one deserves that." She sucked her teeth and sighed, pushing her hat up to scratch the sweat laden skin of her forehead, "Well, I guess that's that job done," she tossed Boone a small pouch of caps, "I got nothin' for you then. Ask Knight inside."

"That road needs cleared if the caravans are going to get moving," Knight looked bored, drained by the paperwork that littered every surface, "the trail is infested with Ants." Boone laughed,

"We, uh, dealt with them already." He said, and Dahlia laughed,

"We're problem solvers," she said in response to Major Knights confused stare, and broke down into delirious giggles. Boone huffed a few rough chortles of his own,

"Well you better go see Ranger Jackson about that." He said and looked back to his paperwork, eyes resting briefly on Boone. Dahlia quirked a brow when he looked back up, noting the slight flush. She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose,

"What?"

"Won't ask, don't tell." She said simply, and saw his face slacken with relief. He nodded. Boone didn't move from the desk,

"You said you got to Novac on a heavy-haul caravan." He said,

"Sure, yeah," Dahlia said,

"Faster than walking to Vegas," he said, and Dahlia widened her eyes for a few seconds before reality knocked gently,

"Expensive," she said,

"Not if they need extra guards," he replied, and she smirked at him. Their eyes met and he held her gaze for a few moments before squirming,

"What?"

"You're smarter than you look," she said, "not that it'd be hard." She sniggered, and he flushed, shaking his head,

"Yeah. Well, I try." He said before slipping out the door.

Jackson actually waved them away at the door,

"I think they're sad to see us go," Dahlia said, scratching Rex's ear as they settled amongst the potatoes and purified water to catch what sleep she could,

"We did more before we got here than they've done in the last five weeks from what I got," Boone said, pushing a few sacks out of his way,

"Yeah, well. Thanks for landing us the nightshift." She said, Boone huffed,

"You want to pay three thousand caps? That's the alternative."

"Calm down," she kicked his boot, "don't fret yourself."

"Shut up." He snorted, and Dahlia smiled gently. They were finding a rhythm that worked so easily; a don't ask, don't tell, rub along in companionable silence kind of rhythm that was working into soft laughs and small kindnesses. He never said what he thought was going to go wrong, and she hadn't asked yet. And that worked fine for them. He snored lightly; used to sleeping through the day. Dahlia blinked at the clear blue sky and listened to the other guards shifting and talking and laughing.

The sun moved in spurts across the sky; she must have slept, but she felt neither tired nor well-rested. She dozed, touching the nearly empty cap-pouch now and then. If Dr Henry's fees were anything like Ada's they would have to work the debt off. Her toes curled in her boots. Jackson paying in equipment had seemed cheap until she considered that. The light recon armour wouldn't turn a bullet, but it was better than cotton, and the boots were real military grade steel-caps. Silver linings everywhere.

"Hey, you're it." A baby faced guard shook her lightly, he grinned and hopped into the cart, making Boone jump, jaw rigid, mouth twisted into a scowl,

"We're up," she said, breaking the tension as she clambered over them. Rex sat up, whining, "stay." She clicked her finger, pointing at the cart. He huffed and rolled into the spot she had left. The guard chuckled and tried to tickle his ears, jumping when he snapped, "It's the hat. He doesn't like hats." She said, and he gave her a strange look.

"It's true," Boone grunted and put his beret on. Rex growled. As they settled into a stride behind the cart train Dahlia saw the guard pull his hat off and reach for Rex again.

"I talked to Knight while you were with Jackson," Boone said, "he said Legion have been pressing on Nelson. Inculta was telling the truth." Dahlia closed her eyes,

"Shit."

"We should lend a hand when we head to return Rex." He said,

"Yeah," she said, ignoring the pang of hurt at the thought of losing Rex, "yeah we definitely should." She said,

"You knew him?" Boone asked eventually, and Dahlia sighed. The silence was over, then,

"No," she said,

"He called you by a name," he said,

"Not my name."

"I know that," he said quietly, and she felt the force behind the words, "I just wanted to know-"

"How do you know you're wife's dead?" She asked,

"I just do." His face dropped into a scowl,

"But how?" She pushed, and she saw realisation dawn,

"Sorry."

"It's fine," she shook her head, "maybe another day." _Maybe never._

The heavy-haul train worked differently from most caravans; rolling through two or three nights before settling down to rest. The rest was mainly, Dahlia gathered, for the Brahmin; they were swaying on their feet by the time they stopped in the ruins of an old camping ground. For once they were not on the night shift; Dahlia counted the guards that were set, watched the perimeter checks and precautions, and knew Boone was doing the same. He huffed and settled back onto his sleeping bag.

"Not good at sleeping through the night," he said eventually, when she was dozing lightly,

"Mm," she mumbled a reply, heard him laugh distantly,

"Sorry." He said,

"S'ok," she mumbled, "you always done nights?"

"Yeah," he said, "even in First Recon. I never slept through the night even as a kid."

"Why?" She turned onto her to stare at the shine of his eyes in the dark, petting Rex's head,

"Dunno," he said and reach over to Rex. Their hands met, and she jumped, suddenly awake. How long had it been since she'd touched another person without reason? He pulled his hand away,

"Sorry," he said,

"It's fine." Dahlia replied, heart hammering a staccato rhythm on her ribs. Rex snored between them, almost drowning out the ghosts in the air. Boone arched his spine in the dark and let out a low, humming groan that was drowned by sudden gunfire. Dahlia rolled to the side, dragging her rifle from under her pack, and sprang to her feet as Rex lunged into the dark,

"Legion?" She gasped,

"Fiends, probably," Boone called from behind cover, "they're all over this close to Vegas." Snarling echoed around them in a cacophony; Rex wasn't the only dog out there. The first few yelps were faint, but the next was deafening,

"Rex!" Dahlia desperately tried to call him back before cursing and running into the fray, _damn dog'll be the death of me,_ grotesque faces were lit by muzzle flashes, and the horned figures she saw were like something from an old ghost story. Only when she rammed one with the butt of her rifle and felt hot blood splash back onto her face did Dahlia come back to the moment; they were human, they could bleed. Rex lunged from the darkness to drag an axe wielding woman to the ground, and proceeded to tear at her face and neck with his powerful jaws.

"Dahlia, fall back." Boone's voice was distant, but he sounded terse. Frightened almost.

"Rex, go." She pointed and he streaked into the darkness, bounding over the caravan guard who had been fussing over him so. Dahlia stared at the young, smooth face, now dotted with blood, as she retreated. Finding herself beside it was a shock.

Her mouth was filled, suddenly, with acidic saliva; she fought the urge to spit and looked up into the eyes of a masked woman, raising a hammer high above her head. Dahlia scrabbled for her sidearm, heart hammering painfully, and fired into nothingness as the woman's head exploded in a spray of bone and blood. Dahlia struggled to her knees, grabbing for her rifle as strong arms lifted her back towards the firelight. Boone threw her down,

"Are you insane?" He said,

"I had to find Rex,"

"No, really. Are you fucking crazy?" He raised his voice, "Fiends don't fuck around Dahlia." He said, ignoring the caravan guards who were milling nearby. Rex licked her bloody face and settled down, "And he, _that,_ is more metal than fur. He can take care of himself." Dahlia fell silent, watching Boone pace,

"I'm sorry," she said, "I know you have a plan. I'm not trying to undermine it."

"A plan?" Boone stopped, arms akimbo, and frowned,

"The legion, I know-"

"That's not what I'm angry!" He snarled, "You need to be more careful with your life."

"Says the man who thinks he's doomed to fail," she said, temper snapping like an overwound guitar string. Boone flinched and stalked into the night, "Shit." She turned to look at Rex, tapped his brain case and ran a finger down his snout. When she raised her head again it was with sudden purpose, "I need a cooler," she said,

"What?" A passing merchant stopped,

"A pre-war cooler, I need one for the dogs brain." She said, and the merchant raised his brows,

"I won't ask," he grunted, "give me five."

Dahlia scrambled to her feet and ventured back out to the bodies.

They split from the caravan before dawn and padded down the worn road, winding upward before the mountain even reached out to embrace them. Her breath misted in the air even after the sun crested the horizon, and Rex seemed spryer and lighter on his paws. Boone walked in silence, head down, shoulders hard as rocks. The sharp, fresh smell of snow struck something deep in her as they climbed into a wooded grove, and she stopped, blinking furiously against the sudden assault of memory,

"What is it?" Boone asked, breaking the silence at last,

"Nothing…" she said faintly, and then swallowed, "it's just…"

"What?" He turned back to her, and Dahlia pursed her lips,

"I wasn't born in the Mojave," she said, and he raised his brows,

"No?"

"No…" she said, "it was more like this. Colder. Wetter. The smell of snow… I remember that there. I was a child."

"Where?"

"I don't know, well, I know," she fumbled the words, "but I don't know if it has a name anymore."

"Your parents brought you?" There it was again; the probing. _Nosey for a man who doesn't want to talk,_

"The legion did, well they took me East. I came _here_ after I… escaped." She said, and the smell became sharper, rancid as memory crossed into reality. Boone pursed his lips,

"Sorry."

"Stop apologising." She said,

"Sorry."

They stared at each other until a small smile appeared on his face,

"Sorry," he said,

"For what?" She snorted,

"Saying sorry. Sorry."

"Stop!"

He closed his mouth and shook his head, but there was a kind of happiness about his face that she was starting recognise. Something about the set of his jaw and the muscle in his cheeks. They moved on, occasionally rubbing shoulders. A few wild Bighorners stared imperiously from the ridges and crags,

"I could live here." Boone said, steam rising from his shoulders as the sun crested the mountain,

"Yeah?" She asked,

"Yeah. Peace, quiet. Not so hot. Might even sleep the nights," he said and hoisted his pack higher,

"We should ask them about real estate when we get there," Dahlia said, "I'd like it out by the sea." She said, "Or by the river at least. Somewhere with land enough for a garden." Rex stooped to sniff something nearby. Boone snorted,

"Yeah, I can see that," he said, and then pointed ahead, "we're here." Dahlia shaded her eyes and saw the sign in the distance. She stooped to scratch behind Rex's ear,

"Look buddy, we're here. Gonna get you fixed up good as new," she said, smiling when he licked her hand, "get your new brain in, maybe a shiny new case." He barked happily and circled her feet. She patted the cooler that the merchant had charged a premium for and brushed stray hair behind her ears. "It's going to be ok." She said almost to herself as the hulking figure of a Super Mutant came into view.

Marcus was big even for a mutant, but he was well-spoken, polite, and calm,

"What's your business?"

"I need to see Dr Henry, I heard he was here…" she said, stomach knotting in anticipation,

"He's in the main building," Marcus said, "head in as you please, but try not to stare at the Nightkin. They don't like it." Dahlia was rushing past him before the words left his mouth, calling Rex on as if now, after the hundreds of miles they had walked, seconds were too precious to waste. Dr Henry blinked at her as she spilled the entire story almost without breath, only after he handed her a cloth did she realise she was crying. Dahlia patted her cheeks dry,

"Sorry," she said, "I guess I didn't realise how much I…" she shrugged and Dr Henry nodded, leaning down,

"Handsome lad," he said, "well, looks like nueral decay. Only so long a brain can be preserved, after all. You'll need-" He stopped, brows raising when she held out the cooler. Boone snorted,

"We talked to a colleague of yours. Ada?" He said, and Dr Henry nodded,

"Ah, yes," he smiled, "Ada. Well, leave your boy with me. Straightforward enough."

"The thing is…" Dahlia bit her lip and emptied the pouch of caps, "this is everything I have." Dr Henry closed her hand over,

"I don't want your money, girl," he said with a smile, "if you want to do something for me find out what the hells going on with the Nightstalkers in Charlestone cave. Take Lily with you." Dahlia nodded,

"Ok, sure, yeah. We can do that." She said and backed from the room. They stood in the fresh air and took in the green, getting deep breaths of the somehow fresher air before Boone snorted,

"Ever feel like an Extra?" He asked,

"A what?" Dahlia frowned at him,

"You know, in plays or shows or whatever. The people they got running about doing all the shit no-one else wants to do. Ever feel like that's us?" He took off his sunglasses and cleaned them on his shirt,

"I thought we were problem solvers," she teased, shading her eyes to look for Lily,

"We are. Just saying I'd like to solve as many of our problems as other peoples." He said, and she covered the small smile that crept onto her face at the word "our". Boone squinted at her,

"What?"

"Didn't think of it that way is all," she said, "never had 'our' problems before, only my own." She said, and regretted it instantly. Boone gave her a strange look and replaced his glasses,

"We're a team," he said, "sniper teams only have 'our' problems. It's how they survive." Dahlia took smiled, a wide, genuine grin, and nodded, realising how she had come to like him over the silent days and hard nights. As a soldier, as a partner… as a person, "That's why I-" he waved his hand a little, "last night."

"I know," she said, "I can roll with that." Dahlia held her hand out to him. He let out a short huff of air through his nose, lips twitching, and took her hand, hooking his thumb against hers firmly.

"Right. Charleston, Rex, Strip, Legion." He ticked off their problems on his fingers one by one,

"Right." Dahlia said, setting her face to the sun, "Let's do this."


	5. Chapter 5

"Please, take a seat," The King motioned to the table before turning to Rex, "well boy, you look fit as a fiddle! Did this nice lady take care of you, I think she did." He fussed over Rex as if he were a child; Dahlia smiled without reservation. Even Boone cracked a twitch at the corners of his mouth, "You got new case and a new brain," The King turned to smile at her, "I have to give you something. This must have cost you."

"No, please," she said before her brain could engage, "he got hurt fighting with us. I had to take care of him." The King looked her up and down, eyes inscrutable, and then smiled,

"Well why don't you let me cover half, seems fair right?" He appealed to Boone, "Make your lady see sense."

"She ain't mine," Boone grunted, "but he's right. His dog, our fight. Half is fair." Dahlia flushed, The King grinned,

"Fine," she said, "half it is." The King nodded and sat back down, motioning for drinks. Two beers, ice cold, and a water for him. Again. Dahlia sipped her beer, anxiety clenching her gut tight,

"I hea-"

"Do I-"

They came to an awkward halt, and The King smiled gently,

"Ladies first," he said,

"Do I… do I have to give him back right now?" Dahlia asked, and Boone jerked his head to the side,

"He's his fucking dog, Dahlia." Boone said incredulously,

"I know! I know… I just," Dahlia sighed, "I'm sorry. I'm fond of him I guess." She said. The King laughed,

"You keep taking good care of him and he can travel with you long as he pleases," he said without a trace of reluctance, "would you like that, boy?" He asked Rex nonchalantly, as if the dog could understand. When Rex barked happily Dahlia stopped laughing, Boone shifted a little, "It's settled, then." The King said. They ate the food that was brought to them, piping hot and mouth-watering, while Rex spread out by his masters feet,

"I heard tell of Benny," The King said eventually, "you didn't find him?"

"I… I did," she said, "but he was… surrounded. I couldn't get close to him."

"Well, maybe we can work on that," he said after the briefest of silences, leaning forward as someone raced from the back of the hall,

"Shit, sorry I-"

"What is it?" The King said,

"Pacer, there's a firefight with NCR boys and he's in the thick of it." The gang member said. The King closed his eyes,

"Fighting with the NCR?" Dahlia leaned forward,

"They've been giving out food and water to their own," the gang member said to her, "ignoring locals. People been getting antsy, and now Pacer's over there-"

"Enough!" The King snapped suddenly, his temper coming with a fury of a tsunami, breaking as suddenly as a wave, "Enough." He said, "Deal with it."

"I can help," Dahlia said, "we can help. We can wind it down, talk with the NCR. Boone used to work with them, and we made good at the outpost."

The King took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose,

"I can't ask you to do that," he said,

"We insist." Boone answered for her, leaning back in his chair, rubbing the pad of his thumb on the side of his finger. Itching to be gone. The King nodded,

"Alright," he said, "I'm obliged. I _want_ peace… if you can see it happen I'll be grateful." The King licked his lips, and sighed. Dahlia bit her lip,

"We'll sort this out," she said quietly, resisting the urge to put her hand on his shoulder; he looked so defeated, so weary beyond all belief. The gunfire could be heard in the lobby of the school, and when they exited into the grey, broke-down streets of Freeside the cracks and shouts echoed all around. They walked against the tide of people fleeing the conflict. Dahlia held up the NCR issue backpack Jackson had given her, Boone straightened his Beret, and as they passed Pacer, cowering in the bus shelter, the gunshots faltered and faded away. The soldiers narrowed their eyes at them as they closed,

"Who's in charge?" Dahlia asked, "The King sent us to make terms… and apologise for this misunderstanding."

"There's been no misunderstanding," a hard-faced, tired looking woman came into view, "I'm Major Kieran. I'm the commanding officer here."

"We were with The King when the news of this firefight was brought to him, he didn't order this aggression. The Kings want peace with the NCR-" Dahlia began, but Major Kieran cut her off, raising a hand,

"The Kings and their leader have done nothing to show that," she said, "that man came here with locals and tried to loot our food and water stores," she pointed to Pacer,

"Shouldn't you be giving to all who need it if you want to build bridges?" Dahlia asked, Boone snorted and looked away,

"We don't have the resources," Major Knight said, "plus, we sent an envoy to The King to coordinate a relief effort. Our man was beaten to within an inch of his life!"

Dahlia closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath,

"I had no idea." She said,

"Seems like we're being played," Boone whispered. Dahlia looked behind her, saw the bodies in the street,

"We have to stop this. He says they want peace," she hissed back, "Freeside _needs_ peace."

"I couldn't agree more." Major Kieran cut in, "I don't trust The King, not yet. But I'll make a deal with you," she said, "get them to pull back, find out what happened to my man, and get them to agree to a coordinated effort. Do that and I'll open our doors to the rest of Freeside… deal?"

"Ok… yes, deal." Dahlia nodded,

"Good, now start by getting those men out of my sight and away from my food stores." Major Kieran said, turning her back to them to give orders. Boone pulled her away, stopping to bark orders at the few Kings who were still with Pacer,

"We need to have a chat with The King," Boone said, "he ain't telling us something." Dahlia nodded,

"Definitely," she said, her jaw set, "I… I want to talk to him alone, though," she looked up to Boone, "he saved my life, I want to give him a chance to explain." Boone's face was inscrutable, but he nodded,

"Sure, just make sure he _does_ explain." He said, "I'll go to The Wrangler."

"No, stay here. I insist," The King said, "we have rooms for you both."

Boone shrugged and allowed himself to be led to his room. Dahlia waited in silence for a moment when the room was at least marginally uncrowded,

"Kieran said that they attempted to coordinate with you, but their envoy was badly beaten and left in the street," she said, raising her chin, "she was under the impression that you definitely do not want peace in Freeside."

"They never sent an envoy," The King said, but frowned when she said nothing, "Dahlia they never sent an envoy to me. I spoke to no-one."

"Then you have people in this building that you need to talk with before I can broker a deal that's going to work," she said and stood, chest tight and hot,

"Dahlia, please," he gripped her hand as she tried to walk away. She stopped, "I didn't know, and I will sort it out. I promise you."

"You don't have to make me promises," she said,

"I want to, I want you to trust me," he said, "because I trust you, and you've done so much for me." His perfectly proportioned face was so sincere, so genuine. Dahlia swallowed the acidic, queasy lump in her throat,

"Ok, I trust you." She said, but he didn't let go of her hand.

"Come and have dinner with me later?" He asked, "I can keep you up to date with my investigations."

"Sure," she said, looking at her feet, "I'll come back down after a bath."

"Just come to my room," he said, "I think we need to talk in private."

Dahlia paced, stomach filled with cazadors, and wrung her hands, though she had thought that was something no-one actually did. It was dinner, and a talk about the state of peace in Freeside… maybe a chat about Rex and when he would want him back. Nothing untoward, no reason to tug her clothes and wonder if she looked ok. No reason to wonder if she had lost too much weight on the road, or if her skin was too rough after the sun and dust. Boone was sleeping. She had heard his snores through the door when she hovered outside, wanting his advice for reasons she couldn't place. She changed three times into clothes that were in the old wardrobe. Left by previous occupants, left for the women that seemed to simply float around the building, who knew? But they were soft, and they were feminine, and she hoped he would notice though she couldn't explain even to herself why that was. The tense squirming in her stomach intensified as footsteps passed her door by again and again. Eventually she told herself that she would go to him only if he came to find her. Then she allowed for the possibility of him sending someone else for her.

Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited, waited, waited praying that no-one would come, hoping desperately for a knock at the door. Hoping so hard that when it did come she barely heard it,

"Coming!" She called, jumping to her feet. It wasn't him. It was Pacer, "Pacer," she said, toes curling suddenly in the flimsy sandals,

"The King wants to see you," he said, and looked her up and down as if she were meat on the block. He snorted and shook his head as she slipped past him, "Guess you get to be the big hero, huh?" He said in her ear, "He's already said the NCR are off-limits, three good men demoted for what you-"

"For what you did." She said over her shoulder, "You did this. You had that man beaten, you started that war, not me."

"Prove it." He spat, and she turned on her heel to glare into his eyes as they stopped outside a set of double doors. Nose to nose, and she couldn't find it in her to pretend to quail. _I've eaten bigger men than you, twisted their arms and broken their necks, split them earhole to arsehole, try me._ Conventional wisdom said that she should have allowed him to underestimate her, but pride fought like a wildcat to see him humbled. In the end the opening of the doors saved her the choice,

"Everything alright?" The King said,

"Fine," she said and strode by him, "just fine."

She dropped into a chair and twisted her hands in her lap,

"Are you alright?" The King said, and suddenly she was struck by the absurdity of their relationship so far,

"What _is_ your name?" She said with a laugh, and he blinked, "I can't keep thinking of you as just _The King_ it's weird," she said, and threw up her hands. He flushed and nodded, laughing a little self-consciously,

"I suppose it is, yeah," he said, "John, my mother called me Johnny, but I prefer John." Dahlia smiled,

"It suits you," she said without thought, and looked away when he flushed with pleasure, "so, you wanted to talk to me about your… investigations?" She accepted the offered glass of wine, sipping it as he blinked stupidly at her,

"Uh, yeah, well I haven't actually. I've asked around a little, but nothing's…" John cleared his throat, "I actually just wanted to have dinner with you." He said, chin raised a little as if she might challenge this assertion. Dahlia blushed, head filled with a hot, heavy buzzing, and looked down at her wine,

"Oh," she said,

"But I did talk to Major Kieran," he said, "we agreed to coordinate the relief effort for refugees and the locals who need help." Dahlia grasped this shard of 'official' conversation and held onto it as if it were a life jacket and she a drowning swimmer,

"That's great!" She yelped, "Wonderful, really. I think Julie Farkas will be pleased by that, I mean the Followers are so…" He leaned forward,

"Have I made your nervous?" He asked gently, "I'm sorry."

Did he make her nervous? _Yes, no… maybe?_ In a way.

"I… no, well yes," Dahlia laughed, "I'm not really used to people just wanting to have dinner with me." She excluded the word 'men'; it would make her sound pathetic, frightened, needy. The King, _John,_ raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if he wasn't sure what to say,

"You make friends easily enough," he said, and she understood, somehow, that he meant Boone as much as himself,

"Boone's not really a friend, I don't think," she said,

"Oh," he sat back,

"No! No, we're not…" she laughed and drank more wine, "we're working together… on a project. I guess. We have the same goals." John smiled again, leaning back to her,

"Well, that's good I suppose," he said, eyes flicking briefly to the girl that brought them dinner. Brahmin steak, _shit,_

"You don't eat meat?" He said, seeing her face,

"No, yes, I mean I do… I'm just trying to figure out how to manage it without making a pig of myself," she said, pursing her lips when he began to laugh, smirking when each glance at her face made him snort,

"Well, I don't know that I can help you there. Guess I'll just have to not judge you, huh?" He said, winking cheekily. Dahlia took a deep breath and rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine.

By the time the second bottle of wine was gone Dahlia was pleasantly fuzzy, luxuriating in the decadence of inebriation. No need to worry about taking watch, no need to be alert for every sound. She could drink, and dance, and laugh. And watch the image of "The King" dissolve under the same effects; John, as it turned out, was much less affected, much more candid, and his hair less physics defying than he would have had anyone believe. By the time he was sitting in his jeans and plain white T-shirt Dahlia was ignoring a small flame of fondness, but the wine wouldn't let her discard it.

"What?" He asked with a twist of the mouth as he came back with a third bottle,

"I prefer John," she said, "to him." She jutted her thumb at the iconic Jacket, discarded on a chair. He licked his lips, smiling, but looking scared all of a sudden,

"Really?" He asked in a small voice,

"Yeah, really." Dahlia smiled, reaching out for him. He placed the glass in her hand, and she recoiled stung both by her own laxity and his rejection. He seemed to realise too late, gaped, and flushed, lurching forward a little, settling back, and looking away before he sitting at ease once more.

She drained her glass and stood,

"I should go, I'm getting a bit too drunk I think-"

"Dahlia," John began,

"No, it's fine, honestly," she said, "I don't know why I-" A strong hand gripped the back of her neck, turning her gently but inevitably until she was met by soft lips and the sudden heat of another body. It was a bad idea, she knew, but it had been so long and he was so, so gentle. So gentle that she barely felt the brush of his thumb on her breast until the heat was shuddering through her body, and her arms were tight around his neck. They staggered back to lean against the door, the handle dug painfully into her back; a reminder of what common sense would have her do. It left its impression long after they danced back to the low, soft couch that sat in the corner.

His hands were rougher than she could have guessed; they hissed their way along her thighs, pushing under her dress, teasing the soft skin without trying. It would have been perfect if, when she opened her eyes, she hadn't seen a frilly, pink nightie on the floor.

Of course.

He was single and free as much as she was, she knew, and so it was unreasonable to be put off by it. But she was,

"Mm no," she said and pushed him away. John blinked owlishly,

"What is it?" He asked, frozen in place as she stood and picked her way across the room, gathering the hair tie she had sat beside her while eating,

"You should return this first," she said, bending to pick it up. He closed his eyes,

"Dahlia-"

"It's fine," she said, though her voice was shrill, "none of my business. I just don't want to tread on some girl's toes." The word girl had more venom than it should have. The whole thing was ridiculous, the sensible, sober part of her said, but she was drunk, and tender, and aching.

"Dahlia please," he said, "just let me explain."

"You don't have to explain," she said, and touched his shoulder, "honestly. I mean that. You've done nothing wrong." She said,

"Then why are you-"

"Leaving?" She said, "Because I don't want to be on a list," she said, "I don't expect a lack of history, just that it _is_ history."

"I was going to ask why you're crying," he said softly, "but I guess that's the same reason?" Dahlia touched her face and felt something proud inside her die,

"Oh," she laughed, "I didn't realise I was. No. Just drunk, I think." She said, and fled despite his pleas for her to stay.

 _Oh you idiot, idiot, idiot, this is why you don't drink._

She fumbled with the key to her room, missing the lock again and again before she stopped, took a breath, and heard the sound of Boone snoring. If this were a book he'd hear her and come out; he'd ask what was wrong and either convince her she was wrong, or ask her if she wanted him to kick John's ass. But it was real life, and he was sleeping. She drew in a deep breath and calmly pushed the key into the lock, slid into the room, and dissolved into hiccupping tears once it was locked behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning: implication of Rape.**

 **A more explicit version of this chapter is available on ArchiveofOurOwn**

* * *

Even Freeside had "twilight hours"; times in which the majority of its inhabitants were asleep, comatose, or at least in hiding. It was just before dawn, and Dahlia was anxiously waiting for Boone to gather his things, loitering just by the door, ignoring the Kings member that kept trying to catch her eye. A ready smile on his lips, sure, but she had to wonder if it was because he _knew._ It was a stupid way to think, she knew, but it still felt like a brand.

 _Hey, remember that chick that cried because she saw a nightie?_

It sounded dumber every time she rehashed the incident; each rendition more simplistic, more outrageous. She swallowed some bile, steeled herself against the oncoming exhaustion and the hangover that was following on its heels, and turned to the doorman,

"Any more issues with the NCR?" She asked,

"No, quiet as mice now," he said with a grin, "just as easy as kittens. For how long though?"

"Well, keep an eye on it," she said, looking towards the gate, "and tell… let The King know we'll check back in within a month or two. If there are any issues we'll be happy to help."

"Sure, sure," he said, "anything else you want me to tell him?"

"What?" Dahlia turned the full force of her gaze on him, heart slamming into the base of her throat, or so it seemed. He blanched a little and the sickness deepened,

"About where you're going, or… or I dunno."

"Oh, no. Thank you," Dahlia said with an apologetic smile, "sorry. Hangover."

"Ah, partied to hard, huh?" He laughed nervously, "Happens to the best of us."

Boone looked as close to happy as she'd ever seen him; clean and rested and ever so slightly chipper. Bastard.

"Nelson?" He asked,

"Nelson," she replied and hefted her pack as Rex circled the area, sniffing out the patterns of the day, "you know the way?"

"Best to go through Boulder city," he said, t-shirt stretching across his broad shoulders as he stooped to secure his own bag, "then follow the road down. Might save time cross-country, but the wildlife up here's real ornery." Dahlia wrinkled her nose and snorted,

"Alright, cowboy, let's go then," she said, heart lifting at the thought of the open road,

"Shut up," he muttered, stopping to ruffle Rex's fur. Dahlia shrugged,

"Just saying, you got awful country there," she put on a twang, relishing the twitch of his lips, "ok, Boulder city it is." She said, and they left the school, The King, and, hopefully, her shame behind the creaking gates of Freeside. _If only it was that easy,_ she sighed and let her head fall as the sun began to beat down.

"Been a fight around here," Boone said suddenly, "looks like fiends, eyes open." She looked up to see a slew of bodies, dismembered, detached, swimming in dried blood,

"Jesus fuck," she muttered, "feels like people want to get worse."

"'Course they do," Boone said, "they can't be better." Dahlia let her eyes slide to him, and took in the set of his jaw, the sudden rise of his shoulders,

"You fought fiends with the NCR?" She asked,

"No," he sighed, "well, not… we never targeted them. Too busy with the Khans." He said and pushed his sunglasses up, wiping sweat from under his eyes,

"Right," Dahlia let the weight of the unspoken slide over her, but didn't reach for it. It wasn't their thing, but more than that she was hungover as all hell. Rancid sweat was working its way down her neck, back, and thighs. By the time they hit the 188 trading post she was soaked through with cold sweat and shaking like tumbleweed in a sandstorm,

"Shit," Boone grunted, "sit down. You need water."

"No, I'm fine," she huffed,

"Sit," he barked and stalked to the makeshift bar.

Dahlia downed the water almost without breath, shivering in the shade afforded by a wrecked trailer,

"You had a good night, then," he said, and she laughed bitterly, "no?"

"I've had better," she said, and he snorted, "no! Christ, Boone, not… ugh, never mind."

"Wow, _that_ bad, huh?" He said, stretching out his legs, "Thought you'd a least get some action. He seemed keen."

"He was," she said,

"You weren't?"

"Ish." She rubbed her arms, and he licked his lips,

"Right, something tells me I should shut up," he drawled and removed his beret, waving it to create a light breeze. Dahlia let her head fall back with a sigh,

"Have you ever completely over-reacted to something… like to the point that you'd rather kill yourself than deal with it ever again?" She asked, Boone laughed, inhaled his own water and coughed helplessly for a few seconds. Dahlia smiled, chuckling,

"What you mean like you did just there?" He asked, and she nodded,

"Yeah, like that?"

"…no," he said and pursed his lips, "but I've done the opposite. Been staring at someone, or something and done nothing or less than I should have. That feels pretty shitty." Laughter rose and fell at the bar, "Is that what happened?"

"I think so," she said, "I…, ah shit. He – we were…"

"Yeah," he said carefully,

"No, we were… making out I guess. And I looked… and I saw a… nightie, like a frilly, pink… womens nightwear," she said, and she flushed for some reason, "on the floor. I know that it, I know that we're not… I mean we're single so it shouldn't have bothered me."

"So why did it?" He asked.

That was the root of it all, wasn't it? _Why?_ Dahlia opened her mouth, closed it, and took stock of the facts. It _did_ bother her, clearly. It had stung and twisted something in her, but she had no idea why.

"I don't… know," she said, but the tears were welling again, "oh Jesus, I'm not even on the rag," she dabbed her eyes furiously. Boone produced a crumpled handkerchief; that he had one at all was a complete wonder,

"He makes people feel special," Boone said, "makes them feel like they stand out, yeah? And when you realise that you're not it stings. Carla was like that. She made everyone feel special, until they didn't."

"Yeah," she said, "well, no. Kind of… I… I'm not great with men."

"You're fine with me," he said, eyes squinting to find her in the brutal light,

"No I mean-"

"I know," he said,

"I just… I don't really trust them, men I mean… not like _that_. Not with that," Dahlia said, "they… scare me, I guess," the truth was dribbling from her without permission. Boone blinked calmly,

"Uh-huh,"

"I trusted him, and I know it's not fair to put that on him… But I feel like I chose the wrong person to trust," she said, "does that make me sound crazy?"

"I guess," Boone said, "but I get it."

"You do?" Dahlia worked her toes inside their leather cladding. Boone sighed and stretched,

"Yeah," he said, "when I met Carla she made me feel special, really special. She talked a lot, but I didn't mind. I didn't talk enough. We met, moved in, and got married within a year. I realised she made everyone feel special after we got married, about three months after," he replaced his beret, "I felt like she lied to me. Like… it was all based on a lie. We argued for months until I realised I was special," he smiled, "she married me."

Dahlia smiled; it was a nice story, but it wasn't much good to her. She struggled to her feet,

"I don't think that's going to be a solution for me," she said,

"No, but you shouldn't let it drag you down. You are special. Thanks to you I'm here instead of Novac, thanks you to Rex is still around," Boone said, scratching Rex's ear as he panted at his feet, "thanks you to that Vulpes Inculta's dead. Big blow to the Legion."

"You helped with that," she said, but she was grinning,

"Hey, I _know_ I'm special." He said, raising his chin as he took her hand and let her pull him to his feet. She chuckled and shook her head,

"Yeah, that's one way to say it," she said, rolling her eyes.

Dinky the Dinosaur loomed into view long before the smell of smoke hit them, but Boone grew tense and quiet almost as it did. Dahlia watched him swaying in her peripheral vision,

"You ok?" She asked eventually, raising her brows when he shushed her,

"Do you hear that?" Boone asked, hand still raised,

"Hear what?" Dahlia strained, listening for something unusual, hearing nothing at all,

"Exactly," Boone said, "nothing. Nothing at all."

Her stomach grew heavy with dread; the legion spread like a cancer, leaving three things in their wake… smoke, bodies, and silence. The first whiff of smoke was faint, and though Novac was bustling quietly Dahlia knew that the first body would come soon. They came in the form of legionaries, lying on the bridge that lead away from Novac. The bodies had been felled by a sniper, like those she had found when she first arrived, but the shots were sloppy and imprecise. Some bodies had two.

"Manny's still drinking," Boone said quietly as they stepped over the corpses and followed the Nelson road. Dahlia resisted the urge to cover her eyes,

"We should have come sooner," she said,

"Rex needed help," Boone replied,

"Nelson-"

"Was the NCR's responsibility," he said firmly, "we're here to clean up the mess, not run the Mojave." She nodded, heart aching dully. Not for the dead, but for the captured. How many would feel that sand beneath their feet and add to it their sweat, tears, and blood?

The Ranger that approached them as they neared the checkpoint was older, weather beaten. Reminded her of Andy, _shit Andy…_ Ranger Station Charlie lay empty, though he probably knew by now. How much of this was connected. Could she have saved them too?

"Look, I don't know either of you and good intentions only go so far," Ranger Milo said, crossing his arms,

"We hate the Legion just as much as you do," she said, "you have hostages down there. You can't play with their lives because you're not sure about us." Milo drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes,

"You First Recon?" He said asked Boone eventually,

"Was."

"Great," Milo said, puffing out his cheeks, "we need a sniper right now. Time for some mercy." Boone flinched, but Milo turned and began to walk down the hill anyway,

"Mercy?"

"Mercy killing," Boone muttered,

"You want to shoot the hostages?" Dahlia broke into a trot, "No, absolutely not."

"Look," Milo rounded on her, "if you can't handle it go blubber with the Troopers. I won't let good men suffer down there because you can't handle killing."

"Oh I can kill," Dahlia said quietly, stopping Boone in his tracks. Milo's eyes flicked around her face, refusing to meet hers for more than a second at a time, "But I won't kill them without trying to save them. Their lives are worth more than that."

"We're beyond that," Milo sighed,

"Just let me try," Dahlia pressed, "if I fail and die you can kill them before I hit the ground." Milo tensed his jaw, paced like a wounded animal, and then stopped in his tracks,

"Ok, fine. It's your funeral," he threw up his hands, and stalked to a nearby vantage point. Dahlia drew a deep breath,

"Boone, cover me?"

"Of course," he said, and then leaned down to her, "get them out of there."

Nelson was a wreck, as so many towns that had fallen to the legion were, but there was still hope. Dahlia kept one eye on the limp forms of the crucified soldiers as she crept down the hill, machete in one hand, 10mm in the other. They had dogs, of course, but they weren't patrolling with them.

Arena dogs. Bait dogs, the poor beasts were rabid with hunger, thirst and fear but they would still rip her apart. The legionaries had done their bloody work and made them feral. _Bastards._ The first came into view without warning, rounding the corner of the building that she was creeping along suddenly, but he fell quickly to a shot through the head. Dahlia closed her eyes briefly, _Boone_ , and then stepped over the body. Gripping her machete tightly she peered around the corner, counted five legionaries and three dogs and slipped into the open, firing three times before they noticed her. Two hounds fell, shots clean and precise, but the third shot went wide. A legionary fell, screaming as blood pumped from his knee. Rex streaked ahead, meeting the last hound head on in a fury of flashing teeth and ripping claws. The four legionaries spread out, readying to flank her as Boone felled the first of them, scattering them to cover like leaves in a gale.

Dahlia sprinted across the battlefield to the first legionary, feeling a ripple in the air as a spear whooshed by her head. He raised his rifle in time to parry her first strike, but the second sent him reeling backwards. The third flew true, and she whirled to meet the battle cry that rang out behind her; the last legionary standing raised his ripper high above his head, _that's my move,_ but she wasn't there to hit.

She slipped to the side and brought the butt of her pistol down on his face as the battle field snapped into focus and the world began to spin faster and faster. They danced around one another for seconds and years, then met with sudden fury in the middle with a grind of teeth and the press of steel against steel. Rex came from left field to clamp his teeth on the legionaries' sword arm, spinning him as they fought for control. Dahlia jumped to get away from the suddenly unpredictable ripper which waved to and fro during the fray.

Switching her hold on the machete she circled around Rex, almost skipping to keep pace, and jumped in to push the blade through the legionaries' side. With a dry wheezehe let go of the throttle, killing the ripper, and fell to his knees. Dahlia pulled the blade back with a grimace, and beheaded him with a full body swing. In the silence that followed she felt every ache and bruise and scar, and hear every moan of pain from the hostages.

"It's ok," she gasped, "we're going to get you out of here." The man on the cross looked at her with eyes so blue that she was stunned for a second. His face was so young, so smooth, that it broke her heart, but when he fell into her arms he was heavy and solid. Each of them was.

They were boys. They were men. Soldier was the one tag that shouldn't have applied to them. The body of what must have been the sole female in the troop hung from a nearby porch, naked, bloody and cold. Dahlia cut her down, covered her with a nearby flag, discarded and half-burned. The sounds from inside the bunkhouse caught her attention as she tucked the edges under the body. Low moans punctuated by laughs. _No, no, no, no…_

Yes.

They were holding her down with pillows over her wrists. Her eyes were black and blue, but she wasn't crying. Dahlia fired three shots into her head, making the legionaries fall back in shock as a fourth sped from the darkness in ornate armour. A leader of a sort; she rammed her forehead into his nose, relishing the crunch, and stepped to the side, firing the last of her clip into his side,

"Predictable, lazy, arrogant," she spat. _Just like me._ The first of the rapists bore down on her, but this one still had his underwear on. _Hello leg man._ Dahlia parried his first blow, barely, and backed further from the approaching legionaries as Rex slunk into the darkened room, growling low in his throat. Three against one… and a dog. Bad odds, but she'd had worse.

Much worse.

They were as sloppy as their commander, but they had numbers on their side. Sweat trickled down her brow as she lunged behind a toppled bedframe to avoid a heavy swing with some kind of club. Dahlia kicked the frame toward the oncoming legionaries as hard as she could, and brought one down. As the second leapt it to close on her Rex sped from the gloom to tear at the fallen soldiers throat. The third hovered, stuck between the desire to help his comrade and go in for the kill. In the moment he hesitated for too long, and his head burst like a watermelon against concrete.

Dahlia screamed when her head slammed into a mirror, broken glass cutting into her scalp; her own distraction had cost her what equal footing she had possessed. Fighting from the ground was no easy feat, but luckily she didn't need to. Boone closed his elbow around the legionary's neck and pulled up with two vicious, jerking twists. A wet crunch, and he was limp.

"Motherfucker," Dahlia cradled her head as Boone shifted the fallen bedframe,

"Get up," he said, "I need to look at your head."

"Someone does," she groaned, "why did I come in here?"

"I have an idea," he said, and she remembered, suddenly and horribly, the woman in the bed came back to her. Dahlia shook her head and grit her teeth,

"I'm fine," she pushed him away and staggered into the sunlight,

"Dahlia,"

The ground seemed to wave under her feet like the ocean,

"Dahlia, you need to get that seen to!"

The heat was unbearable, stifling, choking-

The urge to push her tongue against her teeth was strong, but the acidic tang of blood was stronger. She lay still, praying that another one hadn't come loose, _at least not a front one…_ Dahlia probed her front teeth gently, finding them firm and steady. The sides and back, too, held fast. She opened her eyes to greet the blue sky. Ranger Milo came into view, shook his head, and smiled,

"Fool girl," he grunted, but his voice was gentle. Boone helped her sit,

"You passed out," he said,

"Where are they going?" Dahlia motioned to a group of Troopers walking by. A few turned to smile at her,

"Clear Techatticup mine. A Trooper came up, said he escaped and they're holding his squad. Dahlia struggled to stand, but he held her down,

"We should help," she said as two men came with a stretcher,

"Rex and I'll help," Boone said, "you've probably got concussion."

"No," she shook her head, mouth thick and fuzzy as the world spun. He wrestled her onto the stretcher, held her down until a tired looking woman pushed a needle into her arm,

"This'll dull the pain," she said, voice growing faint,

"Boone, no…" she shook her head, "I want to…"


End file.
